


Snark

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, X-Men First Class Kink Meme, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for this prompt at the XMFC kink meme:</p>
<p>With his telepathy restored, Charles is extremely aware that Peter finds himself and Logan interesting, with the focus only a teenager can muster. He resolves to be a responsible teacher and not take advantage of this, and manages to do so for months... until one day Peter's snark grates exactly the wrong way.</p>
<p>And the next thing he knows, Charles has ordered Peter over to kneel in front of him (with mental-coercion backup), is telepathically repressing his super-speed while nudging his arousal up a few dozen times, and he's just called Logan in to lend a hand. (And if Peter wants to stop, he's going to have to say so instead of zipping away without warning.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snark

**Author's Note:**

> First time attempting any kind of XMFC porn...
> 
> Warning for dubcon, slight D/s tones, overstimulation, general NSFWness, era-compliant unsafe sex.

 

 

***

Pietro Maximoff has requested to be called “Peter.” Not that Charles wasn’t calling him that before, but it’s the principle of the thing. It feels like it’s been a lot longer than a few months since the DC incident, but time always seems to lag whenever Erik isn’t around, Charles has learned. When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.

The few mutants left unharmed and un-investigated by various government agencies have rallied around Charles. Right now, though, he sits in his study, attempting to re-teach himself Latin. It’s going about as well as can be expected; where people would expect his powers’ return to be like taking a deep breath, it’s much closer to the coughs of someone who nearly drowned, choking up water and sputum in difficult spurts.

Charles closes the book after a good three minutes of trying to remember U-declension and getting progressively more frustrated. He leans back in his chair, reaching out a gentle blanket of telepathy—not enough to read thoughts, but enough to _feel out_ the general moods of everyone currently in the mansion. 

There’s Hank, a soft satisfied pulse, an experiment gone right in the labs. Logan, a slightly-prickly _I can feel it when you do that, Prof, stop it_ , followed by resignation as Charles sends out a mental pat to soothe his ruffled feathers.

Peter’s in the kitchen, not eating, just sitting on the counter and swinging his legs. Charles only knows this because Peter’s mind is constantly betraying his motion; it moves as he does, and it doesn’t make sense to think of it that way, but it’s the closest Charles has come.

Underneath the _bored_ surface thoughts, though—Charles assigns chores when he senses boredom, and he’s loathe to come up with any so late in the evening—there’s _interest_ and _curiosity_ and something hot and intense that Charles knows all too well from his, er, experiences with Erik (a lifetime ago, to be sure) and is not touching with a ten-foot pole.

*************************************************************

Charles is not particularly good at controlling his telepathy. What he lacks in finesse, he’s always made up in power. That’s all well and good, but it also means he’s in an, er, _sticky_ situation lately.

It has come to Charles’s attention that Peter is _curious_. He’d read it in Peter’s surface thoughts weeks ago, of course, but he hadn’t bargained on its nature being quite as it is.

Peter has been thinking near-incessantly of sex; Charles does have to cut him some slack there. Peter is a teenager, after all, and Charles himself had that single-minded focus on such activities until…well, until he’d met Erik, really. 

Probing a bit deeper, though, Charles has found that Peter’s intense focus is not on sex _per se_ , but on those surrounding him—Logan and Charles himself, to be exact, and what intensity it was. Peter is all but projecting; Charles could no more ignore the _want_ rolling off Peter in waves than he could a thunderstorm.

For all of Charles’s resolve to be professional (he was a _teenager,_ for heaven’s sake), he has grown well-acquainted with his own mental hand since Peter moved in; Charles has always been too much of an empath for his own good.

*****************************************************************

When he brings it up to Logan over a game of cards, Logan snorts his gruff excuse for laughter and doubles over, giving Charles a good look at his hand in the process. 

“Really, prof.” Charles attempts to look prim. “Well, he’s what, twelve?”

“Nineteen,” the telepath cuts in, raising one eyebrow.

Logan snorts again, an utterly unbecoming sound. “Hell. I’m used to doing it with him at, say, thirty? Not sure how I feel about nineteen though.”

Charles blinks incredulously. “You mean.” Logan shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. “ _Logan_ , the boy needs _guidance_ , not two old men perving on him!”

The other man’s thoughts are simply shouting _??????,_ and he says aloud, “Two.”

Charles clears his throat and says nothing.

“Been a long time since Erik, though, hasn’t it, Charles?”

Charles rolls himself a small distance back, placing his cards on the table with a _we don’t talk about this_ finality. “Not as long as one may think,” he counters. 

Logan looks at him and needs no telepathy to read Charles’s thoughts all over his face. Sure, they may have done it. But. It had been a long damn time since there was anything there.

******************************

Peter has a talent for being obnoxious. Usually, it’s met with rolled eyes from the older mutants. Occasionally, though, he gets knocked down a few pegs. Sometimes even literally.

Five months after Charles’s initial realization of Peter’s interest, Peter is caught shoplifting a truly remarkable quantity of Twinkies and using them to build an effigy of…well, it hadn’t been complete yet, but it seemed to be a fifty-foot-tall Bolivar Trask. Either way, the teenager has been dragged into Charles’s study (he _refuses_ to call it an office) by one very-unamused Hank McCoy, who simply let go of him and said, “Deal with this,” before sweeping out of the study, presumably to return to the labs.

The first thing Charles does is lay a psychic dampener over Peter’s ability; how could he hope to properly lecture the teenager if he flitted about constantly? 

“Sit,” he finally requests, and Peter gives him a skeptical look. “ _Please_ ,” Charles says pointedly, and Peter throws himself into a chair, scooting it back across the hardwood floor with a loud scrape. Frustration, Charles reminds himself, is seldom the best policy with teenagers; if he plans on opening up the thrice-damned school again, he needs to remember how to deal with children.

Peter’s an especially difficult one; he’s unused to being caught, much less being forced to _listen,_ and even less so to having peers, having superiors. “Peter,” Charles begins, attempting “stern” but falling somewhere in the range of “pedantic.” “We’ve been over this before—“

“Yeah, doc.” Peter assumes a belittling tone. “ _Don’t use your powers for crime, don’t get yourself in trouble, humans don’t like mutants already_ , blah, blah. Are we done?”

Charles lifts an eyebrow as Peter begins twiddling his thumbs and tilts his head back, whistling; Peter’s casual demeanor belies the swirling vexation in his mind, the ever-present _interest_ nearly buried beneath annoyance, indignation, _He liked one criminal well enough, the old hypocrite—_

“Sorry, what was that?” Charles asks sharply, eyes narrowing. 

Peter inclines his head again so that he is facing the professor; he twists his mouth and looks off to the side. “Hy…po…crite,” Peter enunciates obnoxiously, his eyes sliding back to Charles. “I mean, you sure did like, what was his name, uh, _Magneto_? Well enough. Guess you just have to be _your brand_ of criminal, then—the kind Charles Xavier wants to—“

“Peter—“

“…only the _worst_ mutant criminal, all, ‘Mutants are _homo superior_ and all the others can go die…’"

“ _Peter—“_

“…’course it doesn’t matter, ‘cause he has a _sweet ass_ —“

“ _Peter!”_

There’s a pulse of psychic energy, and then a _thud_ as Peter’s knees hit the floor. Charles wheels himself out from behind his desk in order to properly look down on Peter. The chair is against the wall now, shoved back with the force of Charles’s command. Peter himself—

Peter himself is on his knees, head bowed, hands palm-up on his thighs. It’s an utterly submissive position, but when the silver-haired mutant looks up, it isn’t submission; he is offering a challenge to Charles, and the telepath simply wheels himself back to his desk, explaining flippantly as he goes.

“…brought this on yourself, of course. Peter, you need to understand that there are lines that one shouldn’t cross.” The blanket of suppression he’s thrown over Peter’s power grows heavier. “As well, though, as much as you call _Erik_ ,” he places careful emphasis on the name, “the ‘worst mutant criminal,’ you’ll quickly learn that I’m not nearly as _affable_ as he—“ 

Charles extends a psychic tendril into that fantasy realm Peter’s been dredging up all too often—is tapping into even now, the sharp tone Charles has taken with him acting as a seed of what can only be called arousal. Charles takes that, pushing it to the forefront, _focusing_ it. It’s child’s play, really. It leaves Peter flushed and panting on the floor, obviously turned on but not willing to say anything. 

“…nor am I as averse as he to telepathic means of _driving home a point_ , shall we say?” _Logan,_ he projects strongly, when he feels the mutant’s mind in what will soon be the Danger Room. _Come to the study at your earliest convenience, would you?_

Logan’s mind radiates irritated acquiescence, and Charles folds his hands on his desk and waits. He imagines he looks quite sinister.

It isn’t three minutes later that Logan strides into the study, the thunderous expression on his face switching to one of bemusement as he obviously takes in the scene. “Pete’s sake, Charles.” 

Charles’s face betrays something close to fury, but his thoughts, crashing over Logan, are much more complex,  _anger, pain, vindication._ The arousal washing off of Peter in concentrated waves, though, Logan can almost smell. It’s nearly tangible in the air. 

“What’d he do?” Logan drawls, pacing a slow circle around Peter’s kneeling form.

“I’m sure you can guess,” Charles snipes, channeling the images in Peter’s mind through his own, sending them to Logan. 

Logan chuckles. “Kid has a big mouth.”

“That he does,” Charles agrees quietly, and then, to Peter, he continues, “which he is perfectly capable of using to stop you at any time. He won’t be _running_ away, though.”

The hitch in Peter’s breath, fear and arousal, is audible even to Charles; Logan smirks, images still flickering through his mind. “I’ll be God-damned, Charles, you were right.”

“I’m seldom entirely wrong,” Charles replies casually, eyes trailing down to where Logan is slowly unbuckling his belt, pushing down his jeans and underwear. He strokes himself to full hardness with one hand, standing in front of Peter.

Charles bites his lip the instant Logan fists his hand in Peter’s silver hair, grating out, “Open,” before thrusting roughly into that abrasive mouth. Peter’s moan as he tastes Logan’s cock isn’t purely physical; it’s a swell of _ohgodfuckyes_ that makes its way through Charles as well, though outwardly the professor remains dispassionate, ordering Peter quietly, “Don’t come.”

Logan follows immediately with his own set of orders—suck harder, use your damn teeth, don’t you fucking dare touch yourself. When he finally pulls Peter off him, his erection is shining, slick, Peter’s mouth swollen, red, used, his own saliva dribbling out, down his chin. 

Charles reaches into one of his desk drawers; it hasn’t been _that_ long since the renaissance of his relationship with Erik, and the lube he’s stored there is still present. He slides the small bottle across the desk, a silent invitation to Logan, who snaps it up with a fierce grin that Charles doesn’t return.

“On your hands and knees,” he says quietly, instead, and Peter obeys promptly, unquestioningly, his head sinking down between his shoulders, baring his neck. Logan wrestles with Peter’s clothing, hefting up first one leg and then the other, until Peter’s lower half is completely bare, his angry red erection lying against his taut stomach, fluid soaking into his gray cotton shirt. 

A quiet whimper is the only indicator of what Logan is doing; he’s coated three fingers with lube, and now trails one down the base of Peter’s spine, running his short fingernail down the cleft of Peter’s ass, circling his rim but not pressing in. “Ask nicely,” Charles orders, because Logan doesn’t seem to be, and is immediately answered with a breathy, “Please.”

The ’s’ becomes a drawn-out hiss as Logan unceremoniously slides his index finger in, Peter’s nails catching the wood floor with a frantic scraping noise as he clenches his fists. 

“None of that,” Charles says detachedly, and Peter’s hands flatten again. “No need to draw blood.”

Peter’s entire body arches when Logan slides in another slick finger, working him open roughly, but thoroughly, drawing a quiet, keening sound from his subject. _Aim down_ , Charles orders Logan, and Peter’s elbows buckle, lifting him further onto Logan’s fingers, pressing back hard as Logan grunts and then slips in a third, twisting his hand, finding that spot again, pulling Peter back to his hands and knees, Peter’s elbows shaking as Logan removes his fingers, sits back on his haunches, coats his erection with lube.

It’s all over too quickly for Charles’s liking.

Peter doesn’t last; who could, after Charles’s tampering? The expression on his face shifts from surprise to shock to  _intensity_  as Logan pushes in, but he makes almost no noise as Logan starts to move, his breath catching in a soft, “Ah,” on each thrust. His eyes slide closed as Logan goes  _faster-harder-more precise,_ his eyebrows drawing together with the effort of holding himself in place, the soft noises he makes lifting in pitch, lips falling open, fingers scraping for purchase and finding only wood varnish.

It’s not long at all before Peter comes undone, the only point of contact Logan’s bruising hold on his waist, the strong fingers gripping, digging in. White semen sprays onto Peter’s shirt, drips onto the hardwood floor. Charles senses when Peter goes boneless, letting himself be taken, his breath growing heavier, more erratic, as Logan pulls him back hard onto frenzied thrusts, no noise until he  finally grunts his release into Peter.

Logan pulls out roughly, all but pushing Peter down into his own mess. It soaks into his side as Peter curls up, liquid darkening his shirt, more just starting to dribble from his raw hole. Logan stands, cleaning himself with the tissue pushed at him by Charles, and zips up with a grunt of approval, walking out of the study without a word. He tosses a wave over his shoulder to Charles as he goes.

Charles wheels himself out from behind his desk once more, box of tissues balanced on his lap. He comes to a stop next to Peter. “Here,” he says gently, feeling the boy’s mind, as wrecked as his body, as he extends the offering. “I’d clean you up, but I can’t quite reach.” Almost absently, he lifts the binding he’s placed over Peter’s ability.

Peter reaches up weakly, grabbing a few tissues and swiping halfheartedly at the mess. “Sorry about your floor,” he whispers.

“I’ll have it refinished.” Charles watches with a concerned gaze as Peter simply continues—not moving.

It’s a good ten minutes before Peter collects himself, pastes his flippant smirk back on his face, gathers his clothing, walks gingerly out of the office. 

When Charles reaches out a mental hand to Peter’s mind, he is genuinely surprised to see that  _interest_ has transformed into pure, simple  _want_. 

_Well, then_ , he projects to Peter, mental voice taking on a lilt of amusement _, we’ll just have to begin using that as reward, rather than punishment. I’ve always believed in the power of positive reinforcement._

Peter’s always-moving mind betrays the fact that his gait slips into a devilish saunter. Whether or not he aims to misbehave, well, that’s his own business.

 


End file.
